


My Love Is Higher Than a Mission Bell

by Eugara



Series: Fleetwood!verse [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: AU, Angel Dean, Angel Sam, Bottom Dean, Dubious Consent Due to Vessel Issues, Inappropriate Use of Angel Powers, Language Kink, M/M, Top Sam
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-18
Updated: 2016-02-18
Packaged: 2018-05-21 11:28:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6049972
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eugara/pseuds/Eugara
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thou shalt have no other Gods before me...</p>
            </blockquote>





	My Love Is Higher Than a Mission Bell

The tipping point comes only three weeks later. It involves a siren, a relatively minor smelting accident, and three republics of the former USSR.

Dean, and to a lesser extent Sam, have been keeping an eye on Castiel every second they can, whether or not their human is currently aware of that fact. Invisibility and an ability to hear even the faintest of prayers does come in handy when your squishy primate charge has a tendency to throw himself into bodily danger for a living. An angelic nudge here or there has a flung knife or discharged bullet whizzing harmlessly past more often than just sheer luck would be able to provide—as hunting is not the safest of professions by any stretch of the imagination—and, at the very least, they need Cas alive until Michael can put him to good use. So, Dean’s been ever vigilant against the odd witch or ghost looking to put a more permanent dent in their human’s thick skull. Pulling the guy back from the dead entirely would be a little harder to explain than would be worth the trouble.

Now, Dean says “to a lesser extent” because it seems like the majority of _Sam’s_ time is being spent making cow eyes at him and oh-so-accidentally leaving pieces of his suit strewn about wherever they’re at. Which is absolute bullshit because they’re freaking _angels,_ and there is no necktie or button-up shirt in existence that could cause Sam enough discomfort to need it removed _“just for a second, Dean. Jeez. What are you getting so worked up about?”_

The worst of it all is how much Dean’s (already flimsy) resolve cracks that much more with every ensuing striptease. After that whole fiasco with the laptop and the jerking off a ways back, he can’t seem to breathe Sam’s air without pornographic memories of that night—and that associated _pleasure_ —flashing across his brain. Making him ache for more. Killing him slowly, bit by torturous bit, as he craves just the tiniest taste of the real thing. Just to line up against what he’d already imagined. And it’s about ten thousand times worse when acres of his brother’s flawless, golden skin are on display. — ** _Vessel’s!_** _Goddammit, Dean! His brother’s **vessel’s** skin on display._

So yeah. He’s been doing just peachy, thanks for asking.

But all that aside, it isn’t until Cas narrowly escapes becoming a siren’s mush-brained plaything that Sam tips them past the point of no return. Ha. _Tips_. Yeah right. He practically _launches_ them both off that fucking cliff and steers directly for the rocks at the bottom.

They’re zapping away the few solid puddles of bronze remaining from their last-minute save when Sam decides to make his move _._ That Bobby guy had rushed to Cas’s rescue the second he’d put two and two together, but his siren-killing knife hadn’t been so much ‘solid bronze’ as ‘ninety-eight percent bronze with a few assorted alloys tossed into the mix’. Simple enough mistake for a human to make, but Sam had caught the discrepancy immediately and they’d had to pop into the metal processing plant with the laxest security they could find—Estonia—and whip up a quick and dirty replacement skewer. It had only taken three and a half seconds (and Singer was never the wiser), but Dean hadn’t accounted for the volume displacement of the liquid metal, and Sam insisted on going back and cleaning up their mess afterwards so the poor humans wouldn’t have to deal with it.

So, it’s as they’re smack dab in the middle of maid service that Sam clears his throat in that very special way of his which means he’s about to say something dangerous—and try to give Dean’s vessel an ulcer in the process. “What do you think yours would be?” his brother pipes up innocently enough. Super casual. He doesn’t even look up from what he’s doing.

Dean just tosses Sam a wary glance in response. “What do I think my what would be?”

“Your siren.” Sam does meet his eyes then, but just for a second. “You know,” he continues, slipping his hands into the pockets of his slacks, “the thing you love most? Emulated right there in physical form to tempt you.”

Dean snorts at his brother’s obvious attempt to get him to cave. Mostly because this one doesn’t even make sense. “We’d see the exact same thing,” he says assuredly. “What you love most? It’d be God.” He pauses for a second as he thinks about it. “Or maybe, like, Dad’s love or acceptance, or whatever metaphor bullshit would make the most sense in human form.” Dean shrugs and finally finishes up with his side of the room, turning to face his brother. “But, y’know, same basic concept.”

Sam doesn’t move for a conspicuous moment, eyes nervous and jaw tense like he’s about to do something really fucking stupid. “That isn’t what I would see,” he says eventually. Quiet as a mouse.

“Dude, what?” Dean scoffs. “Of course it is.”

“No, it isn’t. I’d see you.”

The blunt statement freezes Dean’s lungs in his chest, and if he needed to breathe to survive, he’d be a cold slab of corpse in about two minutes. “Shut up, Sam,” he manages to force past numb lips. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Sam slips his heaviest coat of stubbornness on and readies himself for the long haul. “More like you just don’t want to hear it.”

Dean doesn’t even bother with a reply. He just winks out of sight and pops back up in the Russian arctic, right outside of Norilsk, before the implications of his brother’s words can slow him down. Far enough away that it’ll take Sam a second to track him. There’s snow fucking everywhere and it’s still early enough in the year that the sun won’t rise for another couple months and Dean almost-instantly regrets his decision. The minus 75 degree weather isn’t enough to actually affect him, but it sure makes moving around a lot harder. He’s about to make a flight plan for Barbados when Sam lands behind him with a _woosh_ of freezing, displaced air.

“Seriously?” his brother snits. “You just gonna run away ‘cause you’re too afraid to talk about it?”

The blatant insult scrapes up along Dean’s insides and heats a fire in his belly he’s rarely directed at Sam before. “I ain’t afraid of anything, dick.”

“Bullshit.” Sam holds his stare for a moment, then tosses his head with a sharp sigh. “I’m done playing this game.”

“Parcheesi?” he asks sarcastically.

Sam stalks up closer, snow crunching under his loafers and breath puffing out in angry, white clouds. “You feel the exact same way I do,” he insists, pissy as a cupid throwing a tantrum. “I can read your mind, Dean.” Sam glares at him like he’s trying to bore a couple holes in his skull. The worrisome thing is that he could if he really wanted to. “Or did you forget that part?”

Dean bites down hard on his own anger and finally gives in. “ _Fine_ ,” he snaps. “You wanna talk about it?” He jabs a finger into Sam’s chest and glares right back at him. “You’re an angel. You can’t love anything more than God. None of us can.”

“I love _you_ more than—”

Dean moves faster than the speed of light, flashing in and out and shoving Sam up against the nearest tree trunk before his brother’s vessel can even blink. “Shut the fuck up, Sam,” he hisses through his teeth. “That’s blasphemy! Don’t you understand that? It’s goddamn _blasphemy!_ What if Michael heard you?”

“You think I care? It’s true, Dean!” He keeps his chin up and narrows his eyes. Immovable. “What do you even want me to do about it anyway? Lying is a sin.”

“So are cheeseburgers,” Dean tosses back. “Doesn’t seem to stop McDonald’s.”

Sam holds his stare for a long time, chest heaving under Dean’s fists and mouth pinched tight, until his fierce expression slowly starts to soften. Until the protective anger eventually fades away and all Sam’s left with is the longing underneath. Dewey, sad eyes and frost collecting at the ends of his hair. “Why are you fighting me on this?” he asks pitifully. A helpless puppy dog abandoned in the fucking snow. “I _love_ you. I just want us to be together. And I don’t understand why you don’t want the same.”

Their metabolisms are both going full throttle to keep their organs from freezing in the tundra surrounding them, and it leaves Sam’s skin gloriously warm against his fingers. Body heat seeping through the crisp dress shirt. There’s nothing but silence in every direction. Too cold for birds. Too late for beasts. And Dean can’t fight it anymore. He never could, really. “Of course I do,” he breathes, tender and defeated and all sorts of broken inside. “Of course I do, Sammy. How could I not?” Sam tentatively inches his head forward, and then Dean is pressed up all along that warm, gorgeous body, capturing Sam’s perfect mouth with his own, the residual fight left in him nipping at his brother’s lips.

“I love you the most,” Sam gasps out between frozen kisses. “I’ve always loved you the most.”

But Dean just shushes him, desperate and soft. “Don’t say that again.” He closes his eyes and twists his hands up in the hair at the nape of Sam’s neck. “You can’t let anyone hear that.”

Sam clutches at the stiff leather over his chest. “I can’t help it,” he whispers into Dean’s greedy mouth. “I can’t help it, Dean. I do.” But he doesn’t ask for him to respond in kind. He doesn’t ask, and Dean thanks whoever’s listening for the reprieve because he doesn’t know what he’d say.

This isn’t the right place for what’s about to happen. Not out here in the open like this. If Dean’s gonna molest his baby brother, then goddammit there should at least be a bed involved. Sam deserves so much more than that, but he can only do what he can.

Dean sucks in a breath, and they’re in Moldova before he can let it out again. An old farmhouse. If not abandoned yet, then well on its way. It’s only one room, and a small one at that, but the dark slats of wood seem to keep out the weather well enough. It’s still snowing the tiniest bit outside, delicate flakes lightly drifting by the room’s single window, and Sam runs his hands down Dean’s sides as he walks them backwards to the ancient bed. Not missing a step. His brother’s touch sends an electric thrill up his body and Dean can’t help but let out a low groan at the sensation. _Ticklish_ —his vessel’s brain reminds him, but he’s never had an actual need to place the concept before.

Sam hesitates at his reaction, pupils dark with arousal and tone thick with envy. “What does it feel like?” Dean smiles and lifts his hands to mirror the action along his brother’s sides, and Sam’s knees almost buckle beneath him as he chokes off a moan. “ _Holy_ …”

“Careful there, Sammy,” Dean warns him playfully. “Been enough impiety for one evening, don’t you think?”

“It’s about to get a lot worse,” Sam promises sinfully. He twists them around and shoves Dean back onto the bed, and he’s completely undressed before his body even hits the musty quilt. Sam lifts a taunting eyebrow in triumph, a barely contained smirk tugging at the corner of his lips, and Dean telekinetically yanks his brother down on top of him before he can get too high and mighty.

Sam laughs at the action and quickly handles his own attire, zapping his suit to wherever he zapped the rest, as Dean trails wet kisses up his throat and jaw. “Do you—” He cuts off with a gasp at a particularly sharp nip of Dean’s teeth. “Do you know how…” He doesn’t finish the thought though, letting Dean pick the rest of the question from his brain. _“…to do this?”_

Dean can’t help the amused huff of air, but his brother’s technically right. They’re both going into this blind. “Your guy a virgin?”

“No,” Sam says breathily, shaking his head. “But my vessel, Wesson. He’s only,” he makes a quick gesture with his wrist, “y’know…with women.”

 _Oh._ Fair enough, Dean supposes. Guess that means he’s taking one for the team. He can feel a faint flash of arousal light up Smith’s body at the notion, so he settles in to enjoy the ride, one arm propping up their combined weight as he leisurely trails his other hand down the lengthy spread of his brother’s body. Warm, soft skin stretched tight over ridges of firm muscle and a fluttering heartbeat. Humans truly are beautiful. His Father’s most complicated creation. Though, Dean does take a second to wonder if he’d think the same if another one of his siblings was inhabiting this form. It might just be Sam.

And what a wonder he is, sucking in the tiniest of breaths every time Dean’s fingers brush over a sensitive spot. His neck. The hollow of his hip. A long stretch of inner thigh. Sam’s core temperature rises by two whole degrees as he teases a fingernail over one of the small, taut nipples. He breaks out into a full-body shiver when Dean’s tongue comes into play. Wesson’s dick gets wetter than Smith’s does—a funny thing for his brain to get caught on, but it’s true—and it gets even more so with every delicate touch Dean makes to the rest of him. A large, clear bead of moisture gathers at the very tip before spilling over to go trailing down his shaft, and Dean moans at the sight. It’s fascinating. It’s beautiful.

“Please,” Sam begs softly, his pink mouth dropping open on a barely-there sigh. And how could Dean refuse a plea like that? How could he refuse his brother anything? How was he able to hold off for as long as he _did?_ Why did he even try?

Dean quickly skims through the myriad of positions Smith’s got logged away in his databanks, then settles on something called ‘missionary’. _Ha. How appropriate_. And they’re basically where they need to be already. He lets his arm buckle and stretches out fully on his back, pulling Sam toward him until he can wrap his arms tight around his brother’s shoulders. Wesson’s used to women. This is the closest they can get.

Sam’s already moving into position, stealing what he can from his vessel’s experiences and filling in the rest by latching onto Dean’s neck like there’s no tomorrow and hoping for the best. Smith’s body sure as hell doesn’t seem to mind the damage though, immediately bucking up under the assault in an attempt for more genital contact, and Dean can’t say he’s too put-out by the feel of it either. The hot scrape of Sam’s teeth and soothing follow-up from his tongue sends the best kind of chills racing down his spine.

Shit. They need—what was it called? Lube. That’s right. Human men require that for intercourse and he doubts Sam will realize as much. Dean reaches out to pluck the molecules from the air around them. Twisting the carbon and hydrogen and oxygen into water. Glycerin. Propylene glycol. He makes sure he’s stretched and prepped and slicked before his brother can even line them up, and then he lets out a sharp breath as Sam pushes his way inside, eager and relentless and giving no quarter. The stretch is tight and it burns a little, but it’s good too. So much better than he’d expected. It feels a little like when their grace mixes, but stronger. Hotter. More violent. Sam finally runs out of cock, swallowed up to the root, and they both let out twin groans at the sensation.

Sam doesn’t waste a second, snatching his hips back almost too soon before plowing forward again. A little clumsy, but it sends a sizzle of lust through Dean’s groin anyway. “ _God_ , Dean,” Sam whispers, and Dean has to lightly smack him for the slip-up.

“Dude, no saying Dad’s name in bed.”

His brother snorts in amusement, a flash of white teeth too fast for him to catch, but he nods anyway. Snapping his hips forward to fuck Dean hard, but _silently_. And only Sam could turn the sexual movement of their bodies into apparent sarcasm. He’d be more annoyed by it if it weren’t for the stars suddenly sparking behind his eyelids.

Dean steers into the sensation and picks up his brother’s rhythm effortlessly, the two of them moving in tandem as if they were born for this. It’s almost like his body knows what to do. Which makes sense, he guesses. Smith has had his fair share of dalliances over the years. It could just be muscle memory. But somehow, it seems bigger than that. Like how Dean knows the _exact_ angle to cant his hips to tease another broken moan out of his little brother’s throat. How he can clench down hard, his muscles gripping Sam’s cock tight, and then pulse out a release that has him trembling between Dean’s thighs. How he can goad Sam into fucking him hard and savage simply by crossing his ankles and tugging him in closer.

And Sam is just as affected by it all as he is, unconsciously slipping into Enochian as he whispers murmurs into the base of his throat. Dean’s a shit translator—he always let his brother do the heavy lifting when it came to the language stuff—but rusty as he is, he thinks he catches _“esiasch”_ and _“niis”_. He’d balk at the hokeyness of it all, but Sam’s clearly already on a roll. Whispering words of love and devotion in Spanish, then Latin, then Greek. He composes an ode to Dean’s bravery in French, words spilling out over his collarbones, then waxes poetic about his beauty in Portuguese. Dean hits him for that one. Reaches a hand up to thwack him right upside the head. But Sam just laughs and insults him in Hindi.

Thankfully, he makes up for it by twisting his hips and hitting something _magic_ inside him—prostate gland, used for the production of seminal fluid—and Dean chokes on his next gulp of oxygen.

He was there when his Father first shaped the cosmos. He had a front row seat to the birth of the stars, supernovas exploding into existence, galaxies forming out of nothing. Pure, unadulterated creation. This feels like all of that and more. Hot and cold, and pleasure and pain, and love and death all at once. Every nerve ending of Smith’s body leaping from his bones to mix with the flurry of ice crystals swirling outside the window. Dean is stretched into one thin line as Sam touches him with every bit of want and love and desperation in the entire universe, and his cock jerks violently as he abruptly ejaculates all over himself. A wet pulse of warmth spreading between them and slicking up Sam’s stomach as he powers through the last few thrusts and then follows him over the edge. Coming with a long, drawn-out moan and gradually collapsing onto Dean’s chest.

Dean lifts a hand to pet over his brother’s hair as they lie there, sated and panting and looking at the world through two _very_ new sets of eyes. “Holy _shit_ ,” he finally lets out in an exhausted breath.

Sam manages to drag himself off Dean after a couple of false starts, arms almost buckling under his weight until he collapses onto the mattress beside him. “Now who’s being blasphemous?”

“That was…that was fucking amazing,” he says, ignoring his brother’s snark entirely. For the first time in his life, Dean can maybe understand why Gabriel had flown the coop when he did. Not that he actually _agrees_ with the guy, but damn if there isn’t something to this hedonism thing. In fact, he’d been so caught up in the sheer physical pleasure of it all that he’d completely forgotten to keep hold of his vessel’s autonomic functions and he’s actually sweating. A thin layer of clean perspiration quickly cooling in the farmhouse’s chilly air. Work of a moment to fix, but Dean doesn’t even really want to. It feels… _good_.

Sam chuckles a little, low in his throat, and Dean flops his head to the side with an expectant smile. “What?”

“Nothing, it’s just…” Sam scrunches his face up in playful confusion. “Wesson, he— In his memories, sex doesn’t usually go like that.”

Dean blinks, taken aback. “You saying we didn’t do it right?” Because, _hell_ , if that was ‘incorrect’, then he’s perfectly willing to intentionally do sex wrong for the rest of eternity. He can’t imagine how anything could possibly feel better than what they just did.

Sam laughs again at the misunderstanding, and Dean swears he can hear wind chimes. “No, that’s not what I meant. It’s just that generally,” he fumbles around for the right words, “for the first time, at least—it isn’t that good. It’s supposed to be awkward, I think.” Sam’s brow crinkles as he pokes around in his vessel’s brain. “There’s usually more worrying about how you look and ejaculating too quickly and struggling to figure out your partner’s erogenous zones. Wesson doesn’t have any experience with it being that enjoyable until after he and the girl had practiced it a few times.”

“Well, clearly I’m a sexual savant,” Dean tosses back casually. He flips through the rolodex of his own vessel’s memories, just to measure up against his brother’s words, then promptly chucks them aside again. No point in worrying over something that ain’t broke. “I’m like the Rain Man of fucking, Sammy,” he declares, snuggling back against his pillow. “You’re _welcome_.”

Sam shoots him a wicked look at the egotistical statement, sending a telekinetic pulse directly over Dean’s prostate. The assault on his over-stimulated flesh causes his dick to twitch weakly, so he groans and sets up a low vibration in Sam’s balls in return—the rhythm pulsing counterpoint to his brother’s hitched gasps in this sudden battle of wills. A weak spark of thought arcing across Smith’s mind informs him that human men aren’t able to achieve a second erection so quickly after orgasm, but Dean intentionally ignores it, willing the blood back manually until he’s ready for intercourse again. Then, just for fun, he does the same to his brother.

“Ah, fuck,” Sam gasps as his cock suddenly fills against his thigh. Dean thinks he’s got the last laugh for about two point five seconds, until his brother simply rolls back over on top of him.

Round Two is a hell of a lot lazier and more sloppy than their first go.

Somehow that makes it even better.

Sam’s sprawled out over the sheets after they finish. Mussed and fucked-out and more gorgeous than Dean’s ever seen him. There’s a hint of mildew clinging to the bottom right corner of the patched comforter, and he zaps it away before Sam can notice. His brother deserves better than that. Dean thinks for a moment, then cleans the rest of the linens too. And then _them_ as well. Gives Sam a nice, tidy area to lounge around on. “Y’know,” he tosses out there, settling back down and tugging Sam up against his side, “I gotta say. We didn’t do too bad for having a whole bunch of new feelings dumped in our laps like that.”

Sam’s suspiciously quiet for too long a moment before saying, “I don’t think they’re new.” He risks a glance up to meet Dean’s eyes, then flushes at his look of skepticism. “No, seriously,” he mumbles. “I think they’ve always been there. Just, without vessels we didn’t have the tools to engage with them.”

“Yeah?” Dean asks with a leering grin, unable to help himself. “Well, I’ve got a _tool_ for you to _engage_ with right here.”

His brother lets out a dramatic sigh at the predictable response. “You know what I mean, douche.” Sam brings one broad hand down to settle over the center of his chest, then turns pensive. “Or maybe you don’t. I don’t know. It’s kinda hard to explain.” His thumb rubs absent-mindedly over Dean’s sternum as he thinks. “It’s like…take a human who was born blind, for example. The fact that they can’t _see_ the sun doesn’t mean it’s not there, right? They just don’t have the physical capabilities to understand it in the same way other sighted humans do.” He swallows hard, refusing to meet Dean’s stare. “And if you healed that person, just because they could finally see this amazing, giant ball of light for the very first time, it doesn’t mean that it wasn’t there all along. That it wasn’t affecting them every single day, whether they realized it or not. It would have warmed them in the summer. Tanned their skin. Grown their food.” He distractedly digs his fingers into Dean’s chest and his voice gets all throaty. “We’re just seeing the sun for the first time. That’s what this is.” Dean wraps a hand around his brother’s bicep in concern, and Sam hiccups a little as he tries to get a handle on himself. “I can’t go back to how it was, Dean,” he whispers desperately. “I can’t do it. I don’t wanna be blind again.”

Dean scoots forward to wrap his brother up in his arms. “Hey,” he soothes. “Hey, c’mere, it’s okay.” He presses a hard kiss to Sam’s forehead. “No one’s taking this away, alright? You were right, before. I was just being a stubborn dick.” He shakes him a little until Sam makes a noise of acquiescence. “Okay?” His brother nods silently. Doesn’t quite sniffle, but it’s a close thing.

Dean grins into Sam’s hair. “In fact, there’s gonna be so much sun you’re gonna burn to a crisp. Red as a lobster, man.” Another sound of grudging agreement. “Summer year round. No one else’s gotta know.” He rubs a gentle hand over his brother’s bare back, calming him as best he knows how, and then after a long, quiet moment… “The ‘sun’ is my dick, right?”

“Dude,” Sam laughs into his shoulder, mood fixed, “shut _up_.”

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from Fleetwood Mac's "Mission Bell"


End file.
